Rural Living

Margo Oxendine

Then, we’d drag the sleds back up to the driveway, have some cocoa, let our frozen mittens and gloves dry off a bit, and get right back out there. Those sledding parties are some of my favorite childhood memories.

By now I’m hoping it has snowed. Or is snowing this very minute!

I can’t figure why I love snow so much. For one thing, I do love to shovel snow (as I’ve mentioned countless times). There’s gratification in seeing a well-shoveled path to wherever I need to go.

But the truth is, I don’t really need to go anywhere in the snow. And if I do, I find a reason to bow out. “Too dangerous; I might fall,” I can say, with a nod to my new knees.

There is one sad winter truth: I will never go sledding again. Oh, how I loved that, too. So did Daddy. He’d be right out there with us, “supervising,” he’d say, but really having just as much fun as we were.

I remember those snowy days as a kid. We lived in the middle of a long, single-lane blacktopped road. In his State Trooper guise, Daddy would hike up and block off the top of the road from traffic. All the neighbor kids would join the sledding party, sometimes even at night. Daddy would build a fire at the end of the driveway. Mom would make hot chocolate in a big metal coffee pot, and keep it warm over the fire. Daddy and all us kids would haul our sleds up to the top of the road and fly down all the way to the end, which fortunately ended with a little rise; that stopped us.

Funny, but I was reminded of them recently.

I am thrilled to report that I am now walking in the woods again (I write this column in October, deadlines being what they are). I’m so happy to be out there in the gorgeous fall woods! I walk on a private road, where I tramp along, smiling. I almost never see anyone on these walks, and I like it that way.

But one day, there I was trudging and gaping at the beauty, and I spied a fellow walking toward me. He wore a jaunty cap, and had a walking stick. He looked a bit familiar when he passed and said hello. But I was focused on that walking stick.

One of our favorite family Sunday outings was a walk in the woods. Daddy made sure we each had a perfectly honed and sturdy walking stick. They’d stand ready at the back door, all four of them.

I started thinking about Daddy, and missing him very much.

“Hey Daddy,” I called up toward heaven. “I need you to find me a walking stick, please.”

I started looking for a likely prospect, but could not find one. Then, not 10 minutes later, I noticed the fellow in the jaunty cap walking back toward me. We exchanged pleasantries about the glorious day, and the view all the way to West Virginia.

“That’s a fine walking stick you have,” I told him. “I’ve been looking for one myself, after seeing it.”

“Here,” he said. “Take this one.”

“What? You’re giving it to me?”

“Sure. I’ve got plenty more.”

Good heavens! That’s what I call instant gratification!

“You look familiar,” I said. And then it hit me.

“Are you one of the Lindsay boys?”

“Yes; I’m David.”

(My father’s name, wouldn’t you know?)

“Y’all used to live up on the back road,” I said. “I’m Dave McCollum’s daughter.”

“I know,” he replied. “Mr. McCollum was one of the finest people who ever lived. Your mother, too.”

I was overwhelmed with emotion.

Then he said, “I remember when your dad would block off the road so we could go sledding.”

“That’s one of my favorite childhood memories!” I said.

“We’d fly down that road, and then walk up and ...”

“Your mother would have hot chocolate over a fire at the end of the driveway,”

he finished.

We laughed. He zipped away, and I continued to huff along the road, admiring my new walking stick — a converted golf club: lightweight, metal, with a leather grip on the top.

I was overcome with glee and awe at the wonder of it all. I wasn’t surprised to find a tear on my cheek. And a big smile on my face.